“Adam told his father about the computer he and Derek were messing around with, what they’d found on it. Albert immediately recognized what it was, knew the book, knew it was the same as Conrad’s. So he called Conrad, told him about it, and Conrad came by Albert’s office and took it away. He was Conrad’s lawyer. And his friend. From way back.”
I moved away from the fridge, walked slowly to the sink and back again, rubbing my forehead.
“He told you this?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You believe him?”
Ellen paused. “Yes.”
“God, this is totally. . this is completely fucking with my head,” I said. “But if those guys who came here tonight didn’t know Conrad had the disc, then they must not have known the night they went to the Langleys’ that he already had the computer, too.”
Ellen said, “I don’t know. And I don’t care about any of that. It doesn’t mean anything to me. All I care about now is getting Derek out of jail. I want him out, and then I want to put all this behind us. I don’t care about that goddamn book, I don’t care about Conrad, I don’t give a shit about any of it. None of it matters as long as Derek’s in jail.”
I approached her, slowly at first, then put my arms around her. “I know,” I said. “I know.”
But there were still questions. So maybe Conrad didn’t have anything to do with what had happened here tonight. And maybe he didn’t have anything to do with the murder of the Langleys.
But there was still the matter of his book. And who wrote it.
And if it was Brett Stockwell, and if Conrad wanted to steal his book, how, unless he’d made some deal to pay the boy off, could he allow the boy to live and expect to get away with it?
Once Barry was done with interviewing Drew, he spent some time with Ellen in the living room. That left me and Drew alone in the kitchen.
“So,” I said, smiling, standing by the counter, “a bank robber.”
“I wasn’t very good at it,” Drew said. “My first holdup, I blew it.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“I needed money,” he said, looking at me like I was some kind of an idiot. “I had a child to support.”
I recalled his comment, that he didn’t have kids anymore. Rather than pursue this, I asked, “How’d it go with Detective Duckworth?”
He shrugged, happened to glance up at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was nearly midnight. “We still workin’ tomorrow?” he asked.
I smiled tiredly. “How about I pick you up at nine instead of eight?”
“That’s okay,” he said. “If they don’t take me in.”
I wanted to say something encouraging, but I had no idea how his talk with Barry had gone.
He said to me, “You could have just said you killed him. The cops would’ve believed you without even thinking. But not me. Not with a record.” He frowned. “I was starting to think maybe you’re actually an okay person.”
If I’d made a bad impression when I’d first met Drew, I wasn’t sure how I’d done it. And besides, was that what you had to do to qualify as an okay guy in Drew’s book? Claim to kill someone when you hadn’t?
Wasn’t that a lot for Drew to ask of me, even if he had saved my life? And Ellen’s? Maybe it wasn’t. The thing was, I might have done it if I’d thought the police would buy the story. But there was still Mortie’s accomplice out there somewhere, and no matter how disreputable he might be, his version of events could end up undercutting mine.
It seemed better to stick with the truth. I just hoped it didn’t end up getting Drew screwed.
Finally, Barry and I had some one-on-one time, but we ended up covering the same ground again, and if Barry had found any inconsistencies in our stories, he wasn’t letting on.
The last thing I said to him was, “They won’t charge him, will they? Ellen and I’d probably be dead now if Drew hadn’t shown up.”
Barry shook his head slowly, as if to say no. But all he said was, “How’s your hand?”
There were marks where my fingers had been jammed into the teeth of the hedge trimmer, but the skin hadn’t been broken. “Okay,” I said.
“You were damn lucky.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got horseshoes up my ass.”
We walked back into the kitchen together. Ellen and Drew were outside on the deck, talking. A different uniformed officer, who was holding something down at his side, out of view, sidled past them and came into the kitchen.
“Detective,” he said, and presented Barry with a plastic evidence bag. There was a gun inside it.
“A Glock 19,” Barry said. “Nine mill. The Langleys were killed with a nine-millimeter weapon.”
I felt my own eyebrows go up.
“Where’d you find it?” Barry asked the cop.
“Alongside the lane, just by the grass. We’ve marked the spot.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. “You saying this is the gun that killed the Langleys?”
Barry shook his head. “Nobody’s saying that. Not yet. If it’s the same gun, it’s made an amazing reappearance. Every square inch around here was searched after the Langleys were killed.” He told the cop to keep the recovered gun out of sight, and called Drew in.
“Yeah?” he said.
“You said you followed the second guy?”
“Yeah, but he had a head start, I couldn’t catch him. I’m strong, but I’m not a good runner.”
